Chapter 2

Benjamin Bailey usually enjoyed the sight of a pretty woman on her back. But the garden was too crowded for amorous activities, and the woman staring up at him with wide eyes was not for him. He only pretended to court her, after all.

The veil had flown away from her face during the fall, and Lady Prudence scowled up at him, her pale face bearing clear signs of her ire—brows pulled into a deep V, mouth pinched thin, blue-green eyes sparking in the moonlight. A few tendrils of her hair—a forgettable shade between brown and blonde—escaped its tightly controlled coiffure beneath the veil.

He held out a hand to her.

She smacked it away and rolled to her hands and knees, pushed to her feet on her own. Only to grab his wrist and yank him down, bending his body in half at the waist.

"Devil take it, woman," he hissed, shaking her grip away and shooting up tall once more.

She grabbed his shoulder this time and yanked him down again, whispered in his ear, "Either leave or remain hidden, Mr. Bailey. I'd rather not be caught."

"I already caught you."

She sighed, world-weary. "Again. I'd rather not be caught again. Besides, you're going to release me."

"Catch and release? Will I?"

"Yes, as soon as I can be certain Lord Norton will not latch on next."

Ben straightened as much as she would allow and peeked over the shrubbery that hid them. There, in the moon-brightened shadows—Norton's light hair, his angled profile soft as he gazed down at a veiled woman. He reached for the edge of the woman's veil, where it fell just above her lips. The woman pushed his hand away, keeping her secrets.

"I don't think you have to worry about Norton." Ben ducked down once more. "He's occupied."

"Occupied?" Lady Prudence straightened all the way, her head bouncing above the top edge of the shrubs. "Oh!" Then another gasp on the pathway of a slow, deep inhale. "Oh no." The two words joining the sound of an exhalation.

He peeked over the edge again. Norton now kissed the woman, their lips locked beneath the veil's edge. "She's wearing the same costume as you." Black everywhere, the silk embroidered with golden stars and moons. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Midnight," Lady Prudence said, the word barely audible. "We should stop him!"

"Don't think either of them would appreciate an interruption."

The veiled woman clutched at Norton's lapels, pulling his body against hers. They stumbled back several steps until her back hit a tree trunk. Then Norton trapped her, pressing his palms against the tree beside her head and parting her legs with his knee. She groaned.

Ben's body tightened. The show grew more salacious by the moment. He glanced at Lady Prudence. She bit her bottom lip. If he could see her eyes in the sun's bright rays instead of in the moonlight, he'd be able to tell—did they darken with confusion or with arousal?

She gasped, her hand flying up to catch the sound, to muffle it.

Ben looked back to Norton and his catch. His now nearly naked catch. The viscount had torn the shoulder of the woman's gown, and her bodice gaped low, revealing stays and the thin shift beneath. Norton had freed one small breast.

And Lady Prudence still looked on.

Devil take it. Her brother would not approve. Her brother would scatter knives about Ben's body if he knew.

He cupped her shoulders and tried to turn her. She would not budge. "Back to the ballroom with you." Once more, he tried moving her.

"I should say something. We should stop it." Her voice, hazy and monotone. Her gaze never once wavered from the picture before them—Norton dropping his head to the woman's breast, licking her nipple, teasing it with his teeth. Lady Prudence bit her lip again. Aroused. Definitely aroused. Slowly, her teeth released her lip, leaving it swollen and plump. What color, though? The usual pink or a tortured red? He'd need more than moonlight to tell. Her chest rose and fell, and the low bodice of the black gown strained, small, pretty breasts testing its limits. He'd never seen Lady Prudence like this—tempted and tempting, curious and blooming.

His body tightened further, his cock leaping beneath his fall. An erotic show just beyond the hedge. A pretty-enough lady aroused at his side. Hell. How else was his body supposed to react?

Dangerous indeed. He'd no desire to become target practice for a blade-happy duke.

"You are leaving. Now." Ben stepped between her and the bush, blocking her view.

The arousal drained from her face. If her brother threw knives from his fists, she threw them from her eyes. Just as deadly, too. Yet he found himself wanting to chuckle. Lady Prudence proved a spitfire.

He leaned low enough that she could hear him as he whispered, low enough his lips almost brushed her cheek. "That show is not for you, my lady. It's not for any innocent."

She leaned infinitesimally closer, her lips whispering against his ear, "If there is one thing I detest, it is being called an innocent. I do as I please, and I will not abandon my—"

"Cora Eastwood!" The name rode a feminine shriek into the night air. It hadn't come from Lady Prudence. She seemed just as startled by the shriek as he was—her eyes wide, her lips open on a silent gasp.

On the other side of the shrub, the woman in black jerked, ducked her head into Lord Norton's chest as if the veil did not hide her well enough. Norton yanked her torn sleeve up her shoulder, tried to fix her bodice, and when he could not, stationed himself in front of her as he turned to confront the possessor of the shrieking voice.

An older woman dressed all in white feathers stepped onto the stage.

"Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no." Lady Prudence's dismay sounded much too loud.

Ben clamped a hand down over her mouth, and she let him, her head shaking slowly. Perhaps shock gripped her enough to let him drag her from the scene.

"Quiet," he hissed as he tugged her toward the house.

She would not be tugged. Her feet had grown roots.

"I'll throw you over my shoulder," he threatened.

She did not seem to hear him, her attention fully on the events unraveling beyond the hedge.

"Cora, how could you?" The feathered woman's generous bosom shook as she wailed.

Norton remained like a wall before the woman he hid against the tree. "This is not Miss Eastwood."

"I know my daughter." The feathered woman—Mrs. Eastwood, it seemed—stamped her foot.

And the hidden figure dressed all in tattered black moved away from her protector, lifting her veil as she did so. "Good evening, Mama."

Norton turned still as stone before spinning into life, whirling around, and tipping Miss Eastwood's face up to the moonlight. "M-Miss Eastwood?"

She nodded.

"N-not Lady P—"

"No." Miss Eastwood ripped her chin from his light hold and marched up to her mother.

Lady Prudence trembled. Ben wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, gave her a bit of his strength. She was friends with the caught chit, wasn't she? And the lady P-something Norton had almost named… had it been… Lady Prudence had been attempting to avoid him.

Some emotion hard and fast as lightning ripped through him. Norton didn't seem like a wolf. He'd been a vicar once. But he'd clearly just compromised a lady. A lady he'd thought to be the one sheltered beneath the wing of Ben's arm.

Devil take it.

"We're leaving," he hissed.

"But Cora needs me."

"There's not a thing in hell you can do for her right now. Only Norton can save her, and he will if he's a gentleman."

Her cheek hollowed as she bit the inside of it. She closed her eyes. This time when he tugged, she moved, flowing into step with him as easily as if he led her in a practiced dance.

"I must tell the others," she mumbled, casting a backward glance toward the shrubbery.

"You must tell the others what? And what others?"

"Nothing. No one."

Like hell. He'd been watching this woman closely for months now, waiting for her to slip up. She rarely did. She hid her secrets well. But when she finally made a mistake, he'd be there to see it, to find her secrets when she finally left the door unlocked. Then he could spill them into the duke's hands and be free of the debt he owed that man.

The glow of the ballroom brightened the black ropes of vines near the doorway to a vibrant green, and as they stepped across the threshold from moonlight stillness to candlelight chaos, he said, "Dance with me."

She tripped, ripped her arm from his grasp. "Do what with you?" Yes, her lips redder than he'd seen them.

He almost couldn't look away, and his brain had slowed. It took much too long to push through the mire of sluggishness and find a word to offer her as answer to her question. Red the only word he found, red the only color. He ripped his gaze away, looked at anything else but her lips.

"Dance," he coughed out.

She blinked, shook her head as if she'd still not heard. Was she hard of hearing? Perhaps that explained why she never responded to any of his queries, or to those posed by any of her other suitors. He leaned closer to her ear—she smelled sweet, more like a treat baked in a kitchen than a flower born in the sun—and yelled, "Dance!"

She bounced away from him, hand flying up to cup her ear. "You don't have to scream." She looked left, then right, sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose.

Everyone looked at them, curious eyes skating across his skin like hot coals. Or scalpels. They did, after all, attempt to cut, to peel away, to dissect and observe.

She darted away from him.

He lunged after her. "Where are you going?"

"To my sisters. Cora needs us."

"Miss Eastwood can handle her own ruination. With Lord Norton's help. Are you distressed it was not you? Are you"—God, he hoped not—"heartbroken?"

"No!"

"Then dance with me."

She swung around. "And why should I? You've not even asked."

"I've asked twice now."

"You've demanded. It's not at all the same thing."

With more force of will than he'd known he possessed, he did not roll his eyes. "Lady Prudence, will you honor me with your hand in the next dance?"

"No." She darted away once more. "Oh, there's Lady Templeton. I must tell her. Everything is off." Her words muffled but still clear. She spoke more to herself than to him.

But he could not stifle his curiosity. In fact, it was his job not to stifle his curiosity when she did odd things. He caught up with her, pushing through the crowd just behind her, so close her skirts brushed against his legs. "What is off, Lady Prudence?"

She stopped with a hop, swinging around. They bounced off one another, and he grabbed her arms to keep her from falling.

"You're still here?" She blinked. "Mr. Bailey, you should know, I'm in no mood to be courted at the moment, particularly by an insensitive brute like you.

"Insensitive? What the h—" More eyes glanced their way, and he swallowed his curse, lowered his voice. "What have I done that's insensitive? I've merely done my best to keep you from being compromised."

Her gaze raked over him from face to shoes and back up. "Your costume is in bad taste. The climbing boys are pitiful creatures, tormented by circumstances beyond their control, taken advantage of by evil men. You should not mock them for entertainment."

What the hell did climbing boys have to do with anything? "I'm not wearing a costume."

Her defiant, lifted chin sank a bit, and her gaze flitted over his shoulders, down his sleeves. "But you've got soot all over you, even in your hair, and your clothes are torn. As if you've climbed a chimney."

He looked down at his clothes. Devil take it. He was a mess, even for his standards. His hair had fallen out of its queue, too, and hung lanky around his face. He slapped his hand on his back, his shoulders, but found no ribbon. Lost another one. Damn. He pulled one of the extra, thin, black ribbons he kept on his person from his pocket and tied his hair back before pinning Lady Prudence with a glare. "That's not soot, that's ink. I came here directly from the printshop." He owned several with Mr. Kingston, Lady Prudence's brother-in-law.

"And you didn't think to change first?"

He should have. Clearly.

"Whatever else you are, Mr. Bailey, you are consistent. And that, at least, is admirable." Her veil rippled as she turned once more and slipped through the crush.

He didn't follow this time. Felt suddenly… absurd. The two men chatting next to him wore fine silk and crisp, snowy linen. Their jaws were clean and their hair fashionably styled. The women dancing nearby wore gowns so white the tiniest speck of dust would ruin them. And they'd throw them away or hand them off to a maid and buy all new ones. White as innocence but more disposable. Two nearby wallflowers, neat as pins, caught him looking and gave him their backs. Snubbed by the snubbed.

Hell.

He didn't fit here. Lady Prudence knew it. He knew it. Everyone did. If his clothes didn't give it away, his voice did. Less American than it had been over a decade ago when he'd first crossed the ocean to live with his grandfather. But still different. Still too flat in places, too hard.

Usually, it didn't bother him. But he'd left the printshop and come straight to a ball without even thinking to change his clothes. Why the hell had they even let him through the door? Because of his grandfather, Baron Brightly? Because everyone knew he'd befriended the Duke of Clearford years ago? Connections counted.

Ben shook himself, discomfort flicking off him like water from a wet dog. Where was Clearford? Ah, there, with Lord Noble and Kingston. Naturally.

King saw Ben first and raised a brow as Ben joined their circle.

"You look more like hell than usual, friend," he said. "You battled a printing press, I assume. And lost." His friend's dark hair was longer than fashionable, and a shadow of scruff hung about his jaw, but his clothes were pristine, perfectly fitted. A black domino ringed his green eyes.

Ben eyed King's drink. "I need to keep a change of clothes at all the shops. I keep forgetting. What're you drinking?" Ben needed something strong.

"Lemonade. Want it?"

Ben curled a lip. "Keep it."

"I've not seen you dance with Prudence tonight," Clearford said.

"She's been busy. There's about to be a scandal, Clearford."

The duke's brows drew together. "Where is she?"

"Not Lady Prudence," Ben said. "A friend of hers. I saw the whole thing just now in the gardens. One of Lady Prudence's suitors compromised her. Lord Norton. I think he thought the lady was your sister."

Clearford's hands became loose fists, the kind that could easily wrap around the hilt of a dagger and fling with precision. "Where is she?"

"She might be with Lottie." Noble pushed off the wall he leaned against. Better dressed than all of them together and more flamboyantly. He'd traded his usual somber colors for a gold waistcoat. His domino gold, too. Both matched his hair.

"What are you supposed to be?" Ben asked.

Clearford took a strict step forward. "Now is not the time to—"

"Midas," Noble said with a smirk. "You should see Lottie. Dressed from head to toe in gold. Like a king with a golden touch has had his hands everywh—"

"If you finish that sentence," Clearford said, "I'll put a knife in your gullet."

Noble laughed. "I'll find Lottie."

Kingston stepped away from the circle with him. "I'll help. I'm ready to return home to Andromeda anyway. Only came here to get Bellingham's support for an investment."

"When is she due?" Noble asked as they turned away.

"Two months now, the doctor says." Kingston beamed brighter than the candles above.

"Let's hope it's a boy," Noble said with a shiver.

"I'd rather a girl."

"And end up like Clearford? With all those ladies to marry off?"

"Better that," Kingston said, "than coaches burnt to a crisp in Hyde Park. Have you ever cleaned piss off a doorstep? I have." He shivered. "I'll take a girl, please."

Noble shrugged, and both men disappeared into the crowd.

The duke's attention had not wavered from Ben. "Anything else I need to know, Bailey?" He'd crossed his arms over his chest, and one wrist flinched in a steady rhythm, as if beneath his arm, his fingers rubbed his ribs. Or perhaps the knife hidden beneath his waistcoat there. "You've not seen the twins dancing in a fountain, perhaps, or Felicity dressed as a lad and sneaking about the mews?"

The twins were more of the duke's sisters. Felicity too, likely, though Ben couldn't remember all their names. There were eight of the chits, after all, three still in the schoolroom.

"No. I've nothing new to report. Other than what I already have. And Lady Prudence wasn't involved. We saw it all, though. And I'm positive Norton meant to seduce her instead of Miss Eastwood."

Clearford's jaw worked, clearly chewing through several words he could not say in a ballroom. "I trusted Norton. And Prudence… what can she be hiding?"

"She ran off into the gardens on her own. But that could be because she was running from Norton."

Clearford's eyes flashed. "Scared?"

"No. Annoyed." He chuckled. "Very annoyed." And then aroused. Ben's chuckle died.

"She's hiding something. All my sisters are, but I can't seem to figure it out. They're always one step ahead of me."

"Have you tried asking them about it?"

"Yes. They went all wide-eyed and sad looking. Then enraged. Like I'd questioned their honor. Wouldn't speak to me for weeks afterward."

"Could have been worse."

Clearford scowled. "Prudence can give no good reason for not wishing to wed. Spinster? Ha. There must be something holding her back. I want to know what it is. I need to know." His eyes darkened, and his jaw tightened. "How else am I to protect her? All of them? How am I to keep them safe if they insist on keeping things from me? If they have husbands—solid, dependable husbands—I need not worry so much." Usually, the duke wore a cloak of cool confidence, but tonight a shadow tore at that cloak, revealing the doubt, the fear, beneath it.

"I'll figure it out, Clearford. Don't turn watering pot."

"You're right. You will figure it out. Or I'll keep my shares, Bailey."

"You needn't remind me. Hard to forget my oldest friend this side of the Atlantic has turned blackmailer."

Clearford's eyes bounced from side to side, looking for anyone near enough to hear. He leaned close and whispered, "Desperate times, Bailey, desperate measures. The sooner you find out my sister's secret, the sooner I'll sell you my shares of London Life Prints."

"I told Kingston not to let you invest." But the small printshop in the middle of the bustle of Fleet Street had been one of the first they'd procured, when they'd possessed more ambition than the blunt to fuel it. Kingston and Clearford had supplied the ready cash, and Ben had supplied the knowledge of printing he'd gained at his father's side in Boston.

Ben had wanted the shop, needed it in his very bones, from the moment he'd laid eyes on it. Narrow and easy to overlook with tall windows, a hanging sign, and a blue door. It had looked so much like the printshop his parents had run, an instant bout of homesickness had swamped him, drowning him like the icy waves of the Atlantic. Made it hard to breathe. The only way to get the building and its presses had been by partnering with others. His grandfather was well-off, but not so much he could finance a business. So, he'd partnered with Clearford and Kingston, but now…

Now it was time to own it for himself. Time to resurrect Boston's Bailey Prints in London and honor his parents' memories better than he had so far.

Clearford sighed. "We have a deal, an arrangement. It's hardly blackmail."

"You could just sell me the shares without demanding alternative payment."

"I could. I'm sorry." And he rather looked it, too, refusing to meet Ben's gaze, those gray eyes stormy.

Ben himself couldn't find the ire to be terribly fussed about it. Would be more convenient were the duke to do things the usual way. But he didn't mind helping with the sister, finding out what kept the chit unwed and making sure she did herself no harm. A favor for a friend whose countenance had begun to look a bit bruised.

"Are you making no progress with Prudence?" Clearford asked.

"None. She's too smart to discuss her secrets with suspicious suitors."

"You need to be more believable. Women talk to men they trust."

"She shouldn't trust me. You really want me to gain your sister's trust through underhanded means? I'm already lying to her."

Clearford winced. "She doesn't want to marry. You'll not break her heart."

That, the only reason Ben had been able to keep guilt at bay all this time. If there'd been a chance he'd hurt her with all this…

He couldn't. He may look like a beast, but his father had taught him how to treat a lady, and his grandfather had reinforced those lessons.

"What if she ends up wanting to marry me?" Ben asked.

Clearford tapped a finger on his dark sleeve. "Then… excellent."

"Now you're sacrificing me?"

Clearford's jaw ticked. "For some causes, a man will sacrifice anything. Look. Noble and King are returning. Without my sisters."

"They don't look happy." Both men's faces were scored with grim lines.

"We'd best see what's happened."

Ben clapped his friend's shoulder. "You'd best see. Not my problem, old man." Ben left before hearing Clearford's reply. He left the ballroom, and he left the house, and he left the ton he didn't really belong to. He'd been born to a printshop owner in Boston, had learned the trade at his father's knee. Had taken over after his parents' deaths, running every aspect of the business and running himself ragged. And ultimately running the printshop into the ground.

He'd failed to keep his parents' dream alive; authors of political pamphlets wouldn't trust a fifteen-year-old boy with their work, and less than a year after he'd spilled dirt on his parents' coffins, he'd sold the shop and boarded a boat to England.

Well, he wasn't fifteen anymore, and he'd have his second chance—a shop just like his father's, the door painted just the shade his mother liked, a bell that rang when anyone entered, the scent of paper and ink heavy in the air, and Bailey's Prints on the sign above the door.

But first he had to discover Lady Prudence's secrets.